by Tony Lewis
“Absolutely.”
“So, ven shall I be expecting you?”
“Probably a couple of days, Sir, but I'll call ahead and give you plenty of notice if that's alright.”
“Excellent. I shall haf Egon prepare some rooms for you and your colleagues.”
“Very kind of you, Sir.”
“Not at all. And now I must go. I'm helping vun off my staff members recuperate from a hop operation.”
“Don't you mean a hip operation, My Lord?”
“No. I had vun off his legs removed. Farevell.”
* * *
Two days, four hospital visits, and thirty seven explosions (one of which made a tourist in Budapest say to his friend “Did you feel that?”) later, Crumble proudly announced that all was ready for them to travel to Jocular's castle to proceed with the full scale version of Kilo's experiment. That being the case he, Kilo, Flug and Mandrake made their way their first, taking all of the equipment and body parts with them. That left Ollie, Stitches and Ethan. Ronnie had volunteered to stay behind to take care of any business at the office. A couple of days shacked up at the vampire lord's palace of pain wasn't his idea of a good time. Ronnie's idea of a good time involved, well, you must have some idea.
A cold, dark evening saw the three of them boarding Bill the Coachman's carriage to make the trip.
“Flip flop, gents. How the out `o' date chicken are ya? Wobble an' tripe awright?”
“Good grief, it's worse than usual,” observed Stitches, as he clambered onto the carriage. “Ordinarily I'd be able to glean some meaning from what he's saying but that was total and utter nonsense. It'd be easier to understand a drunk Russian with a speech impediment.”
“What are you talking about?” countered Ethan, taking a seat opposite the zombie. “It makes perfect sense.”
“How do you figure that out?” said Ollie. “Because I have to admit I struggle understanding Bill these days.”
“It's simple. Flip flop, open shoe, exposed toe, hello.”
Both Ollie and Stitches stared at the lycan, dumbfounded.
“And so it goes with `how the out of date chicken are you?' Out of date chicken, gone off a bit, rotten smell, hell.”
“You're putting me on,” said Stitches.
“Not at all.”
“So essentially you take a phrase that has no bearing whatsoever on what you're trying to say, chuck in a few tenuous links and slap what you really mean on the end.”
“Precisely,” said Ethan.
“So,” said Ollie mischievously. “ `Wobble and tripe all in good order'. Wobble and tripe, jelly and meat, Sunday dinner, day of rest, work tomorrow, get up early, alarm bell ring, everything.”
“There you go,” said Ethan with a big smile on his face. “Not bad for a beginner but you got there in the end.”
“I don't know how,” admitted Ollie flabbergasted. “I was taking the mick if I'm honest.”
“But that's the beauty of this type of slang. It kind of comes naturally.” said Ethan.
“Think I'll stick to good old English thanks very much,” said Stitches, relaxing into the soft velvet of his seat. “I don't fancy getting involved in a conversation that takes twice as long as it should because I have to use forty seven words instead of one. Might as well be a politician.”
“Almost there, gents,” Bill shouted through his view flap. “Anover ten mins and we'll be sorted aht.” (Bill had heard the chat regarding his colourful verbalisations so he decided to tone it down a bit from Cockney BowBellend to Eastend sterotype.)
“That was bloody quick,” said Stitches, sadly realising that he would be bumping into Egon rather sooner than he had hoped. “Seems like we only just got in.”
Indeed they had. The remarkable thing about Bill's set up was that he operated on the fringes of time and space, and whilst certainly not alive he was by no means completely dead. This meant that he occupied a shadowy netherworld where the normal laws of physics had a bit of trouble making themselves heard. Up wasn't necessarily up, down was arbitrary at best, and time had a few problems travelling in a straight line. It wasn't unheard of for passengers to arrive at their destinations a few minutes before they had actually gotten on board. This could be a teensy weensy bit disconcerting if you weren't prepared for it, as in the case of one poor soul who had boarded the carriage in the midst of a particularly robust cosmic flux. He had been on his way to a surprise birthday party for his dear old Mum the next day but had actually arrived just as she was preparing to get married. To his Father. He had had to think quickly to explain why a young man looking a lot like her future husband had suddenly appeared. It took some doing because not everyone has bright purple hair and three nostrils. He got out of it by claiming that he was a distant cousin several dozen times removed and had travelled to the celebration from his mud hut on the side of a mountain. This also explained why one of his legs was eight inches shorter than the other one. Another family trait you see. Legs do run in families, ha ha.
It does make you wonder what on earth his poor Mum saw in his Dad, to be honest. Mind you she was a cave dwelling mud ogre so she couldn't afford to be too choosy. Anyway, the young man had a great time at the reception and even managed to suggest to his Mum that should she have a son in the future she should get him the Grim Reaper costume that he wanted for his ninth birthday and not the hand knitted bobble hat and glove combo that she would first think of because three of the gloves would be too small and not have enough fingers. As you've no doubt already imagined they weren't a particularly attractive family. (Author's note. Any issues that the reader may have with paradoxes, time travel, quantum mechanics and the like please write to Professor Brian Cox at whichever high-brow university he's knocking about in these days. He can explain it because I sure as hell can't.)
“Ere we go, peeps,” said Bill, his red eyes glowing like the fires of Hell from the depths of his hood, “safe as arses.”
Ollie, Stitches and Ethan disembarked and said farewell to the coachman, thankful that their `arses' had been in good hands.
“Ah well,” said the zombie, trailing the other two to the front door. “Another entertaining few days trying to avoid that mentally disturbed oompah loompah.”
“Hopefully it won't be as bad this time,” said Ollie, who was using both hands to raise the new door knocker. It was jet black and etched with variously coloured flecks of paint and was in the shape of what seemed to be Santa Claus (If he was in a really bad mood, had taken a wheelbarrow full of steroids and carrying a meat cleaver that had suspiciously looking meaty globs along it's sharp edge.)
Ollie let it go and a crash like two planets colliding resounded throughout the valley, as well as in their heads. It was so loud that people twenty five miles away answered their front doors before shouting at non-existent kids to stop mucking about.
Very slowly but very surely the door to Jocular's castle opened revealing the magnificent entrance hall, exquisite artistry and one extremely ugly dwarf type thing.
“Hello, Egon,” said Ollie. “How are you?”
“Oh, splendid thank you. All the better for having a few visitors. Good evening Ethan.”
“Egon.”
“And a very warm welcome to you, Master Stitches,” oozed Egon as he ushered the trio inside. “I trust you're keeping well?”
“Yes indeed,” replied the zombie. “Couldn't be better. Everything is in working order and where it should be. And that's how I expect it to be when we leave.”
“Well that's lovely, isn't it,” said Egon.
“As long as we're clear,” said Stitches, being careful not to step on Egon's hump.
“Wasn't that thing a different colour the last time we were here?” asked Ollie, gazing at the disturbing, gelatinous splat of flesh before him, and then looking at the hump.
“It was, how observant of you. Both One Lump and Two used to be flesh coloured, but I was starting to have some trouble telling them apart so I painted this one red.”
“Red,” said Egon.
“I don't want to state the obvious but I think I'm going to have to,” said Stitches. “Are you still having problems telling them apart?”
“Funnily enough, yes,” said Egon, a perplexed look on his misshapen, pumpkin like head. “You would've thought that marking them would have made it easier. I really can't understand it.”
“Maybe you should try painting them different colours,” said Ollie, wondering if Skullenia was on the verge of crowning a brand new Thickie of the Year champion.
“What a splendid idea,” said Egon, closing the enormous front door. “I'll do that as soon as my duties are over for the night. This way please, gentlemen.”
“Where are the others?” asked Ethan, as they traversed the innards of the castle.
“I believe they're in the laboratory on the top floor. I haven't been up there since this morning but I've heard a lot of banging and crashing and swearing so I assume that they're hard at work.”
“It's not the banging and crashing that you need to worry about,” said Stitches. “It's the explosions that you need to be wary of.”
“Really?”
“Yup, because they're usually the precursor to buildings and people going missing, more damage than an earthquake in a third world country, and expensive repair bills. And that's just when he's making a cup of tea.”
“I shouldn't overly concern yourself with that too much,” said Egon after a moment's consideration. He placed a stubby figured hand on Stitches' arm. “The castle is quite resilient you know. It's survived all sorts of disasters both man-made and natural, including the Master's extensive remodelling. Ah, here we are.”
Egon raised his hand to knock but as always he was pre-empted by a chilling voice from within.
“Enter.”
“Our visitors, My Lord,” Egon announced as he led them into the room. It was comparatively smaller than any of the other rooms that they had previously visited, and by far and away the most normal. There were no outlandish pieces of furniture, no wallpaper so dazzling that it would give a blind person double vision, and not a single disturbing sculpture. His Royal Darkness was sitting at a table, fiddling with a small black box. Well, it looked small in Jocular's gigantic mitts. If any normal person was messing around with it you might have thought that they were interfering with a microwave.
“Ah, good effening, gentlemen. I vill be viz you shortly. I seem to be haffing a spot off bozzer viz my new item.”
There were buttons on it, wires sticking out of it and a distinct crackle coming from somewhere inside it.
“What is it, Sir if you don't mind me asking?” said Ethan.
“It's an AM PM radio,” said Jocular, untangling a red wire from a blue one. “I purchased it from a travelling vendor.”
“Sorry, Sir. Did you say an AM PM radio?”
“Indeed. Ze fellow said it produces high qvality music in ze morning and ze afternoon, but I don't seem to be able to get a sing out off it.”
Stitches wandered over and cast a glance over the electronic jumble. Despite the enormous size of his hands Jocular was quite dexterous and seemed to be rummaging through the mess easily. He supposed that made sense though. You couldn't survive for centuries as a vampire Lord without being fairly nimble of digit. Virgins needed handling very delicately, and silk shirts and cravats snagged and tore very easily. Jocular was also surprisingly adept at the Rubik's Cube, threading needles, and assembling those fiddly little models that come inside chocolate eggs. Of course it also helped to be a bloodthirsty, homicidal maniac, but everyone has a softer side, don't they?
The zombie was about to make a subtly sarcastic comment, but the sight of fingers that had biceps put him off slightly. Jocular could easily strangle him with one hand and have enough overlap at the back to snap his fingers to a funky salsa beat (one of his favourites apparently.) So what with discretion being the better part of valour, and the fact that they couldn't be more scared of Jocular if he put on a scary clown mask, went `Mwahahahahaha', and whipped out a balloon in the shape of a battleaxe, Ollie and Ethan kept their comments and observations to themselves as well. It was better to be undead than completely dead after all.
“Maybe you should have a word with the chap,” said Ollie, “ask him for a refund.”
“Oh, zere's no need for zat,” said Jocular, pushing the useless box away from him. “He von't be knocking on my door again.”
“Disappeared, has he?” asked Ethan.
“Not exactly no. He's hanging upside down in my cellar. I am hoping zat a head full off blood vill make him see ze error off his vays.”
“What'll happen to him then?” asked Stitches, taking an involuntary step backwards.
Jocular stood up and stretched. It was like watching a pylon being straightened out.
“Oh, I shall kill him off course, but at least he vill go to his final resting place knowing how very naughty he has been. And about eight pints drier I suspect no?”
Not even the smallest of titters broke through.
“Anyvay, enough off such trifling trivia,” Jocular continued. “I vould imagine zat you're qvite keen to check on ze progress off your colleagues yes? From vot Egon tells me zey are getting on splendidly.”
“Have you not seen it for yourself, Sir?” asked Ollie, thinking that seeing the others wasn't the only reason that he was keen to get to the lab.
Jocular shook his head and knitted his eyebrows. It was like watching two mutant caterpillars running toward each other.
“No. It is very high up and exposed to ze elements. Not enough glass up zere you see and I do haf a bit of a problem viz heights.”
(Now, it might seem a bit strange that a vampire, and in particular one of Jocular's elevated status, should suffer from acrophobia, but it is quite common. Although able to tolerate flying around in bat form a lot of vampires stay fairly close to the ground. If they were happy to go up any higher then we'd have such creatures as vampire eagles and blood sucking albatrosses. Plus there'd be a hell of a lot more vampires out there with a pilot's license.)
“Egon vill show you ze vay. I must check on my guest. Don't vont to leave him hanging around for ever.”
Once dismissed from Jocular's quite frankly terrifying presence, they made their way up what seemed like an infinite number of steps before reaching laboratory level. As they approached the door they could hear clangs, crashes, smashes and bangs coming from inside. It was reminiscent of standing outside Crumble's lab at home, only much louder and, no doubt, decidedly more dangerous.
“Sounds like the Prof is having a wail of a time in there,” said Stitches. “Imagine what he's getting up to with all that equipment. I'm genuinely shocked that the planet is still in one piece.”
“To be fair,” said Egon, who was well aware of Crumble's reputation for being more destructive than a troop of River Dancers in an active minefield, “it hasn't gone too badly. We've only lost two benches, one wall, and a cat.”
He bent down and picked up One Lump and Two. The other one, (whichever one it was, it was nigh on impossible to tell. It was like trying to tell the difference between a chair), having joined them at some point between here and Jocular's room. He turned to Stitches.
“Would you mind? It's quite dangerous in there and I wouldn't want one of the little chaps getting hurt.”
Can you tell if a lump gets a lump, thought Stitches as one of the fleshy sacks manoeuvred its way onto his arm and nestled there. It didn't have legs or any other obvious form of locomotion, so heaven knew how it moved about.
“Surely if one of them takes a knock you could just put an ice pack on it couldn't you?” he said. “Or pop it into the freezer.” The incorporeal dollop wriggled next to his bicep. “Which one is this by the way?”
“One Lump I think,” said Egon, looking carefully, “but I'm not a hundred percent sure. I really must take up Master Splint's suggestion
and paint them different colours.”
Fed up with lump talk, Ethan opened up the door and they all entered the lab.
“Wow!” said the lycan.
The laboratory was immense and it seemed as if every available space within its cavernous interior was taken up with some bit of equipment or another. Some of it was humming quietly whilst other items had sparks and mini bolts of lightning coursing round them. There were spinning copper coils, variously coloured diodes and switches, levers all over the place, and two eight feet tall glass tanks that seemed to be full of a cloudy, transparent liquid. Wooden crates lay scattered about the place, some of them open, some not, and hundreds of feet of wire curled around the walls and ceiling. In the rafters was a large silver sphere covered in a golden mesh. It swung lazily back and forth like a massive chrome pendulum. It whispered quietly through the air as it moved.
SWOOSH. SWOOSH. SWOOSH.
In the centre of all this technological madness was a mortuary table. On it lay Kilo's body parts (not his obviously), and he, Crumble and Flug were gathered around it. It was Flug who spotted them first.
“Ah, greetings friends,” he boomed, “welcome to our humble work place. As you can see we've been rather busy.”
“I'll say,” said Ollie taking it all in. “Who would have thought that you needed this lot for a bit of reanimation.”
“You got that right,” Stitches agreed. “There must be enough electricity flowing through here to get Godzilla up and running.”
Crumble looked up from the slab and smiled.
“I think you may be a little confused,” he said. “We had nothing to do with this lot.”
“What's it all for then?” asked Ethan.
“It runs the central heating,” said Egon. “You'd be surprised how hard it is to warm up a castle this size. And even then the hot water is extremely temperamental.”
Ollie instantly went from being really excited to downright disappointed faster than a lottery winner who's just found out that his winning ticket is currently residing in the digestive system of the cat, and won't be making a reappearance until the next day in Mrs. Spire's garden at number 56.